SOMETHING CHILDISH, BUT VERY NATURAL.

WRITTEN IN GERMANY.

IF I had but two little wings,

And were a little feathery bird,

To you I'd fly, my dear!

But thoughts like these are idle things,
And I stay here.

But in my sleep to you I fly :

(I'm always with you in my sleep!)

The world is all one's own.

But then one wakes, and where am I?
All, all alone.

Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids:
So I love to wake ere break of day:
For though my sleep be gone,

Yet while 'tis dark, one shuts one's lids,
And still dreams on.

HOME-SICK.

WRITTEN IN GERMANY..

'Tis sweet to him, who all the week

Through city-crowds must push his way, To stroll alone through fields and woods, And hallow thus the Sabbath-day.

And sweet it is, in summer bower,

Sincere, affectionate, and gay,

One's own dear children feasting round,
To celebrate one's marriage-day.

But what is all, to his delight,

Who, having long been doom'd to roam, Throws off the bundle from his back, Before the door of his own home?

Home-sickness is a wasting pang;

This feel I hourly more and more:

There's healing only in thy wings,
Thou breeze that playest on Albion's shore !

RECOLLECTIONS OF LOVE.

How warm this woodland wild recess !
Love surely hath been breathing here.
And this sweet bed of heath, my dear!
Swells up, then sinks with fair caress,
As if to have you yet more near.

Eight springs have flown, since last I lay
On sea-ward Quantock's heathy hills,
Where quiet sounds from hidden rills
Float here and there, like things astray,

And high o'er head the sky-lark shrills.

No voice as yet had made the air
Be music with your name; yet why
That asking look? that yearning sigh?
That sense of promise every where?
Beloved! flew your spirit by?

As when a mother doth explore

The rose-mark on her long-lost child,
I met, I loved you, maiden mild !
As whom I long had loved before-
So deeply, had I been beguiled.

You stood before me like a thought,
A dream remembered in a dream.
But when those meek eyes first did seem
To tell me, love within you wrought-
O Greta dear domestic stream,

Has not, since then, Love's prompture deep
Has not Love's whisper evermore,
Been ceaseless, as thy gentle roar !

Sole voice, when other voices sleep,
Dear under-song in Clamour's hour.

THE HOUR WHEN WE SHALL MEET AGAIN.

COMPOSED DURING ILLNESS, AND IN ABSENCE.

DIM hour! that sleep'st on pillowy clouds afar,
O rise and yoke the turtles to thy car!
Bend o'er the traces, blame each lingering dove,
And give me to the bosom of my love!

My gentle love, caressing and carest,

With heaving heart shall cradle me to rest;

Shed the warm tear-drop from her smiling eyes, Lull with fond woe, and med'cine me with sighs: While finely-flushing float her kisses meek,

Like melted rubies, o'er my pallid cheek.

Chill'd by the night, the drooping rose of May
Mourns the long absence of the lovely day;
Young Day, returning at her promised hour,
Weeps o'er the sorrows of her fav'rite flower;
Weeps the soft dew, the balmy gale she sighs,
And darts a trembling lustre from her eyes.
New life and joy th' expanding flow'ret feels :
His pitying Mistress mourns, and mourning heals!

LADY CAROLINE LAMB,

Born 1785, died 1825.

IF thou couldst know what 'tis to weep,
To weep unpitied and alone,
The livelong night whilst others sleep,
Silent and mournful watch to keep,

Thou wouldst not do what I have done.

If thou couldst know what 'tis to smile,
To smile, whilst scorned by every one,
To hide, by many an artful wile,

A heart that knows more grief than guile,
Thou wouldst not do what I have done.

And, oh! if thou couldst think how drear,

When friends are changed and health is gone, The world would to thine eyes appear;

If thou, like me, to none wert dear,

Thou wouldst not do what I have done.

GEORGE GORDON BYRON,

LORD BYRON,

Born 1788, died 1824.

[From "Childe Harold," Canto III.]

THE castled crag of Drachenfels

Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine,
Whose breast of waters broadly swells
Between the banks which bear the vine,
And hills all rich with blossom'd trees,
And fields which promise corn and wine,
And scatter'd cities crowning these,

Whose far white walls along them shine,
Have strew'd a scene, which I should see
With double joy wert thou with me!

And peasant girls with deep blue eyes,
And hands which offer early flowers,

Walk smiling o'er this paradise ;

Above, the frequent feudal towers